


Who Leaves a Funeral Early?

by May_Shepard



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, Friends to Lovers, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 09:49:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5962897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/May_Shepard/pseuds/May_Shepard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martha Hudson always regretted losing touch with her best friend Margaret. When she sees a notice in the paper that Margaret's husband has died, she decides to take the opportunity to make amends. It goes much better than expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Leaves a Funeral Early?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redscudery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/gifts), [Vulgarweed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/gifts).



> All credit for the Sherlock in Miami scenario goes to Monika Krasnorada, who asserts that "anyone who thinks his hair WOULDN'T be an unholy mess in that heat and humidity, just has no clue how the world works."
> 
> JUST SO. 
> 
> Thanks for letting me borrow this delicous idea, honey.
> 
> xoxo :0

Martha Hudson walked down the pavement to the church with her usual efficiency, despite her nerves. She hadn't got as far in life as she had by hesitating, once she'd made a decision.

She would attend this funeral. She'd known she would, the moment she saw the notice in the paper.

Margaret's husband was dead. Passed in hospital, peacefully, or so the notice said, surrounded by friends and family. Private burial, and now, this memorial service.

The church was a smallish, red brick building. A rainbow flag, mounted beside the door, rippled in the crisp May breeze.

Martha had been surprised, when she'd heard Margaret had gotten married, years ago. She hadn't been invited to the wedding, of course. She'd heard about it all anyway, mostly through Eleanor.

"Oh, he's handsome as the day is long," Eleanor had told Martha over brunch, her cherubic cheeks glowing. "Looks just like Charlton Heston, but without the interest in guns, thank God. I don't need to tell you how bad that can get."

Martha had laughed. "Yes, well. That's true enough."

She'd grown used to her friends talking about her Florida days as if it were all some story she'd made up to amuse everyone. Frank and drugs and guns and blowing people's heads off. Not to mention the trial and execution, and the narrow escape from people who'd wanted Frank's money, after he died. No wonder Margaret hadn't wanted anything to do with Martha, after she and Frank had married. It wasn't exactly safe. 

Well, that was all water under the bridge. She was just a landlady now.

She paused at the bottom of the church steps to admire a patch of daffodils. Another spring, and she and Margaret were still both alive in the world. Incredible. Another spring, and they still hadn't made amends. Well, that was right next door to unacceptable. Time for a change.

The daffodils nodded in the breeze, as if in agreement.

She should just go in, and get it over with. She would feel better when she'd paid her respects.

She adjusted her skirt and jacket. She still had doubts about her outfit, but Sherlock had insisted.

"I haven't worn this in years, dear," she'd told him, when he'd pulled the deep plum suit out of her wardrobe. It still fit, but when she'd bought it, she'd chosen it for the way it cinched at the waist, and played up her hips and chest. Hardly appropriate at her time of life.

"This shirt," he'd said, handing her a dark blue blouse with ruffles.

"Oh no. I'll look like a peacock."

"I thought it would look nice," he'd said, eyes downcast.

He'd been so sad lately. The fact was, Martha would do anything to cheer Sherlock up.

So she'd worn the plum suit and the blue blouse. She still wasn't sure it was decent for a funeral, but there was no help for it now.

_Who cares about decent?_ That's what Sherlock would say.

She straightened her skirt again and scrubbed her teeth with an index finger to make sure they were clear of lipstick. Wouldn't do to look less than her best for her best friend.

Former.

A small group of mourners, younger people, walked up the path and on into the church. One of the men smiled at her shyly.

"Hello," she murmured.

She took another turn around the church lawn.

She was being silly. She really should just go in. Then again, being here at all was silly, perhaps. She read the church cornerstone. There were chinks in the masonry, where the mortar was falling out.

"I know the feeling," she said, under her breath.

Over the years there had been rumours, again mostly through Eleanor, about the state of Margaret's marriage. "That husband!" Eleanor had huffed. "I don't need to tell _you_ how to recognise a pouf, what with the company you keep."

Well, things had certainly turned out all wrong between John and Sherlock, hadn't they? What with John running off and marrying a woman. It was that whole business that had started Martha thinking about Margaret again.

Martha had seen what John getting married had done to Sherlock well enough. If Martha had hurt Margaret anything like that, then she owed her an apology. At their age, unresolved bad feeling was just not on. Even if they could never be friends like they once were, Martha hoped she could repair things between them a little. Maybe they could have tea, and chat about old times.

_Enough_ , she thought, walking up the church steps resolutely. She could certainly manage a little peacemaking.

Inside, the place was already packed with mourners, predominantly men.

"Martha!"

Eleanor bustled over. "You came," she said, smiling broadly.

"I couldn't stay away, could I?"

"Well, I dare say you could have. Touch dramatic, isn't it? Turning up like this?"

"Hush, dear. I just wanted to pay my respects. I'll sit at the back. No need to upset her, is there?"

"Rubbish. You can't be here and not say anything."

A woman with auburn curls was sitting in the foremost pew, closest to the pulpit, chatting with a few people who were gathered around her. Her shoulders were more rounded than Martha remembered, but the curls hadn't changed a bit. Martha would recognise them anywhere. Margaret had kept her colour, then. It always was so lovely.

Martha's stomach turned. Not butterflies: more like bats. Margaret had chosen to break off ties. Maybe Martha was taking advantage, showing up here.

"I shouldn't have come," Martha said, as much to herself as to Eleanor.

"Nonsense," Eleanor said. She slid her arm into Martha's, gripping her tightly. Eleanor always was a solid sort of person. She pulled Martha along with her as they pushed through the groups of mourners toward the front of the chapel.

Margaret's curls bounced as she spoke to a smiling woman standing in front of her. A peal of laughter like bright music rang out over the crowd.

How Martha had missed that laugh. All the time they'd spent together, walking through the park at lunch, talking over their ridiculous jobs (Margaret a receptionist, Martha a bookkeeper), their ludicrous bosses, their terrible dates. They'd always had such a good time. Their long evenings spent sipping wine and watching crap telly, or flipping through magazines, talking about movie stars and making fun of everything they could. They always laughed, tears streaming down their faces, Margaret's cheeks red, the two of them collapsing in each other's arms.

A well-groomed older man was speaking to Margaret, clasping her hands in his, as she smiled up at him.

"You know he loved you," she was saying. "Just remember how much, dear."

"We had a good run, didn't we?" He was smiling too, tears standing in his eyes.

Martha felt a bit weepy herself. She hadn't known George at all. It wouldn't be appropriate for her to cry. But waiting for Margaret to turn her head, to see her, to _know_ her, and maybe, if she were very lucky, speak to her, she was quite overwhelmed.

Eleanor gave her a little push, and she stumbled forward.

"Marty?" Margaret blinked at her. A smile played across her lips. Oh, she was still every bit as beautiful as she'd always been, her hazel eyes bright. She'd aged luminously, smile lines marking the corners of her eyes and the sides of her mouth.

"Mags," Martha murmured, fighting rough emotion.  

Margaret was in Martha's arms before Martha could think. Martha wrapped her arms around Margaret's shoulders and clung to her, tears springing into her eyes, delight bubbling up into her throat and coming out as laughter, always a laugh with Margaret.

And oh, it felt so good to hold her again, to hear Margaret say, "Marty! Marty!" over and over. She was the only one who used that nickname, the only one who had ever used it.

Margaret squeezed Martha tight, her hands moving across Martha's waist and low back, lingering there. Oh. Martha had thought about this, of course she had, over the years, and especially lately.

Yes, she'd wanted to see her Mags again, very badly, but that wasn't all. She'd allowed herself to wonder, in an idle way, about whether there'd really been something unspoken between them, and whether she'd missed her chance. Would it really be so different from anything she'd done with a man? Wouldn't it be better?

She giggled at herself. So far gone, already! And there wasn't even any wine involved.

Delicately, she moved her hand up to cup Margaret's face, and pressed her lips to the corner of Margaret's mouth. She could surely get away with that. No one judged old women too harshly.

Margaret pulled back, her hands still on Martha's waist, and looked at her with a combination of delight and shock, then pulled her into another embrace. They both laughed as Margaret's fingers traced delightful circles on the small of Martha's back. In front of all these people, too! Mr. Chatterjee had never been so passionate.

"It's so good to see you, Marty!"

Margaret released her, took her hands, and held them out to the sides while her eyes ran all up and down the plum coloured suit. "And you look so well! Life's been good to you then? Of course we all know you're getting quite famous, with those tenants of yours." Margaret winked and fluffed the blue ruffles of Martha's blouse with her fingertips.

"Oh, Mags," Martha sighed. She lowered her voice to a whisper. "I didn't know if I should come. I didn't want to intrude. This is a hard day for you."

Margaret took a step back. She held out her skirt, which Martha saw was a flaming red colour, with a generous slit up the side. Mags had always danced, and had the legs to prove it. She wore a black wraparound blouse with a plunging neckline, and a hint of red camisole at the bodice.

"Do I look sad?" she said, grinning.

The man she'd been speaking to earlier came up beside her, and put his arm around Margaret's waist. "The merry widow," he said, and kissed Margaret's cheek. "That's what we call her."

Margaret swatted him on the chest. "Hush now! You know George wanted this to be a party. He wouldn't hear of us sending him off all glum." She drew closer to Martha. "Marty, this is Nathan. He and George were together."

Nathan extended his hand. When Martha took it, he turned it and kissed the back of it. "It's wonderful to meet you, finally," he said. His smile was gentle. "I've heard so many wonderful things about you. All Margaret's stories."

So it was true. Mags and George did have a marriage of convenience. George had belonged to Nathan. But who had Mags belonged to, all these years? Anyone?

"I'm very sorry for your loss," she said to Nathan. "To both of you."

Margaret nodded. "Thank you, Marty. He was a dear friend."

"He was very dear," Nathan said, his eyes shining. "But at our age we can't hope for more than a few good years, and we certainly had those."

The whole tone of the chapel was much lighter than Martha'd expected, just like Margaret said, more a party than a funeral. Margaret had ended up with a wonderful circle of friends, just like she deserved.

"I think we should start soon, don't you?" Nathan asked Margaret. "We're going to go past our time if we keep putting it off."

"I suppose you're right." Margaret smiled at Martha. "I still can't believe you're here. It's been far too long."

Martha nodded, a bit disappointed. She wanted to keep talking to Margaret, but that was being a bit selfish, wasn't it? "I don't want to keep you. It was so good to see you, Mags."

"Oh," Margaret said, her brow furrowed.

"Excuse me." Nathan took Margaret's arm. "I'm just going to borrow her for a moment. It really is wonderful to meet you, Martha."

Martha watched as the two of them stepped aside, heads bent together. Nathan said something with a lift of his eyebrows, and Margaret threw her head back and laughed.

The back of the church was still relatively empty. Martha could take a seat there, and hope, perhaps, to get Margaret's number, or talk to her once more before the afternoon was over. Her lower back still felt warm where Margaret's fingers had traced circles. She smiled as she watched the spring sunlight filter in through a grand rose window on the south side of the church. She'd made progress. That would have to be good enough, for today.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?"

Margaret's arm slipped around Martha's waist again, her fingers pressing against Martha's side. "I'm glad you came," she said. "It means the world to me."

"I didn't know if I'd be welcome," Martha said. "It's been so long. I feel badly about that."

Margaret shrugged and looked down at the pew. She straightened a hymnal that had gone askew. "Of course you're welcome," she said. "I should have gotten in touch. I should have told you--you will always be welcome. I just didn't know how to go about it. I know things were bad for you, back when, you know, all that business happened. You probably could have used a friend."

Martha's throat tightened at the memory of how terrible Frank had been, in the end, and how relieved she'd been to see the last of him. "Well, you know, I had Sherlock's help with that. It's the funniest story, how we met. I swear he'd never seen an exotic dancer before, and probably never has since. Not a female one, anyway."

Margaret laughed. "Do you still dance?"

"I can tell you do," Martha slipped her arm around Margaret's back, and held her just as warmly as Margaret was holding her.

Margaret's hand slid a little lower, to the top of Martha's hip. "Marty, let's get out of here."

"What? And miss the service? What will people say?"

"Nathan will manage. He's already told me he doesn't need me to speak. Everyone will understand."

Martha looked back at the crowd of people milling about at the front of the church. Nathan was speaking with an earnest looking pair of men, and gesturing toward the pulpit. He held a sheaf of notes in his hand. "They look like they're getting ready to start."

"All the more reason to go now. Please? I don't want to be here and I do so badly want to catch up with you." Margaret's hand slipped another inch lower.

Martha inhaled sharply as her entire bottom and thighs went up in flames. She was certain she was blushing. Mags smiled at her as hard as she ever had, as impishly.

"Martha Sissons," she whispered. Martha thrilled at the use of her maiden name. "Don't make me wait one more minute for you."

Up at the front of the chapel, Nathan grinned in their direction. He made a motion with both hands toward the door: _scoot_.

"All right." Martha giggled. "I suppose we'll get away with it, if we hurry."

"If we hurry." Mags took her by the hand and pulled her toward the church door, and outside.

***

They made their way back to Baker Street. Mags wanted to see the place where "the famous detective with the hat" lived. Martha suspected that both the bottle of port she'd kept back for a special occasion and her stash of herbal soothers might come in handy.

When she offered, Mags accepted both.

They sipped the port out of small tumblers and took turns passing a joint back and forth, until the conversation eased and they were both giggling over Martha's photo album. The late afternoon sun shone in through the sitting room window, illuminating Mags' auburn curls, setting them on fire. She really was every bit as beautiful as she'd always been, back when they were inseparable.

Mags flipped to a page that featured a couple of polaroids of a stroppy looking Sherlock, barely nineteen years old, in a worn t-shirt and shorts, sunburned and wild-haired, leaning against a palm tree. On the facing page was a picture of a much younger Martha and Sherlock, standing outside the door of the club Frank had owned, as a cover for his cartel.

"He was just a baby when you met him," Mags said.

"He was," Martha agreed, smiling over the pictures. "Oh, so clever. And quite lost in Miami. He's always been vain about that hair." She giggled. "The humidity! And the salt in the air. He just couldn't do a thing about it!" She laughed, her voice rough and throaty from the smoke, and held her hands out to the sides of her head to demonstrate how big Sherlock's hair had gotten.

"But he saved you? Him?"

"Yeah. If not for him, I don't know where I'd be."

"Why did he?" Mags drained her glass. "Did he...?" Mags gestured between Martha and the picture of Sherlock.

Martha refilled their glasses from the half empty bottle of port. "Oh no, never. Not even then. He's always known what he was."

Mags smiled sweetly.

"He wanted to show off, a bit, I think. And he was just kind, you know. He's got a big heart under all that." Martha made a serious face and puffed out her chest. "Hardly anyone knows it, but I saw it right away."

Mags turned the pages of the photo album, years passing under her slender fingers. Her nails were still neatly trimmed, practical, with the same French manicure she'd always favoured. She stopped on the page of pictures from the first Christmas they'd had at Baker Street, after John and Sherlock moved in.

"Oh, that's him," Mags said, pointing to a photo of John in a red and green Christmas jumper. "Handsome bloke."

"Yes, and the two of them together." The picture beside it showed John in his jumper, raising a glass of scotch and mugging for the camera, beside a grim-looking Sherlock, wearing the antlers Martha'd bought him. He'd only put them on after John had asked. Martha'd always loved that photo. "They were always running off on adventures. I'd hoped, you know. For Sherlock's sake."

Mags turned the page. Martha hadn't had the heart to put in any photos of Mary, or John and Mary together. There was one more picture, of her and Sherlock, upstairs, after he'd returned. Greg Lestrade had insisted on taking it. Martha had thought it would just be something he kept on his phone, but then he'd shown up a few days later with a print for her. "For your book, Ma'am. If you don't mind me saying, it's a nice one of both of you."

In the photo, Sherlock still had a cut on his lip from--well. Martha didn't need to explain all that to Mags.

"But they didn't," Mags said. "They weren't."

The mood had turned sombre. As perhaps it should have. It was the day of George's memorial, and there was far too much unspoken between Martha and Mags. Perhaps it was too much to ask, for them to keep laughing.

"And you?" Martha said. "What about you?"

"Oh, nothing so exciting." Mags waved her away.

"I want to know," Martha insisted. She went to sip her port, and found that she'd drained the glass. "How did you meet George?"

"At a club. A club for people like us." Mags smiled shyly as she shot Martha a look that went straight to the base of Martha's spine and took up warm, liquid residence there. "It was convenient, being married to him. It stopped all the questions from the people who could make our lives difficult, and was thoroughly understood by all the people who mattered."

"But you were friends, too. You must have been. You lived together and all that."

"Oh yeah," Mags said. "Best friends." She frowned at the coffee table. "Nothing like you and I were. Just, really good friends."

"What was he like?"

"Creative. Funny. A photographer, you know. He did the most wonderful series of all of our friends. He and Nathan--well, there's a great love story if that's what you're looking for."

Martha refilled her glass and laughed. "I suppose I always am, in a way. But you know me. I always got carried away by the big noise." She risked a look at Mags, who met her gaze with a sad smile. "I was always flying headlong at life. I should have slowed down."

"I worried about you," Mags said, taking Martha's forearm in her hand. "I couldn't stand the thought of what he might do. It was too much for me to watch. I always wished I'd been stronger."

"No," Martha whispered. The port and the pot had both gone to her head. The traffic sounds from outside and the gentle murmur of the radio in the kitchen seemed very far away. The house was quiet. "It wasn't your fault, Mags. I knew how you felt. At least I think I did. I just couldn't make myself pause to consider it."

She thought of Sherlock. She'd seen firsthand how terrible things had been for him. The thought that she'd put Mags, who she loved, through the exact same thing, was suddenly intolerable.

She moved closer to Mags, shifting over on the sofa until their hips pressed together, and she could properly slide her arm around Mags' shoulders. She leaned in. Mags wore a new perfume. Sandalwood.

Mags grinned at her, that old mischief shining in her eyes just like it always had. "You've had to slow down now, haven't you? With that hip of yours." They'd talked through all their aches and pains, like a litany of war wounds.

"You'd be surprised," Martha said, her breath catching as Mags slid her hand over Martha's leg and squeezed, her thumb pressing the soft muscle of her inner thigh.

They both giggled as Mags pulled Martha in and kissed her on the lips. It wasn't soft, thank the Lord. It was firm-lipped and slick-tongued and every bit as passionate as any kiss Martha'd ever had. Mags sighed into her mouth and began to unbutton Martha's jacket.

"Is this all right?" Mags whispered as she pulled the jacket off over Martha's arms, and went to work on the blouse.

Martha could barely answer, her yes more a gasp than a word as Mags cupped her breast and ran the flat of her palm across her nipple, which hardened instantly. Mags hiked up Martha's skirt and planted a knee between Martha's legs, pressing against her.

She'd been wrong, so wrong, all these years, to think that Mags would be too gentle for her. She wondered idly, as Mags pulled her blouse free of her skirt and caressed her stomach and rib cage, if she could look forward to being sore tomorrow morning. She was willing to bet on it. She threw her head back and laughed.

"What's funny?" Mags asked, giggling, as she undid the ties on her black blouse, pulling it off and dropping it on the floor. She hitched her knee a little closer, nudging again between Martha's legs. "Consider your answer carefully."

Even through her hose and panties, the contact made Martha moan. She drew her legs up and rolled against Mags' knee as Mags leaned over her, her white arms firm on either side of Martha, the length of her whole body pressing in as they kissed again, lips sliding, Mags' tongue teasing against Martha's teeth, then pushing in to touch Martha's. Martha ran her fingers through Mags' auburn curls. 

Mags pushed herself up and off Martha, cheeks flushed, her hair wild around her face, just like the girl Martha had always loved. "Bed?" Mags said, her smile cocky. "I'd like a bit more rolling about room, wouldn't you?"

Martha held out her hands for Mags to take. Mags pulled her up onto her feet and kissed her again. Ripe and full of need, Martha fell in with Mags just like she always had, the two of them against the world, laughing at every pain that came their way. Now that they were together again, it was as if no time had passed at all. They were still the same, that core of love and mockery and delight that they had built between them still whole, still there, as palpable as Mags' sweet mouth and wandering hands.

"Down the hall," Martha giggled, pointing toward the bedroom.

"Come on!" Mags said, practically lifting Martha off her feet as she spun her around and caught her again. "Shall we dance?"

In the bedroom, Mags drew her into another kiss, this one slower, more thoughtful, her fingers tracing the lines of Martha's face, throat, and shoulders before sliding down to slip into the top of her bra, caressing the skin there.

It wasn't enough, Martha thought, to allow Mags to undress her, as Mags unzipped her skirt and pushed it down, rolling her hose down with it. She found the ties to Mags' red skirt and undid them, letting it fall, revealing a black garter belt holding up black lace topped stockings. Inches of Mags' firm white thighs showed between her black lace panties and the tops of the stockings.

"Fancy," Martha giggled, as Mags kissed the side of her neck. The giggle turned into a moan as Mags swirled her tongue on a particularly sensitive spot.

"If you like them, we can leave them on," Mags growled.

"I like them."

Mags made short work of the rest of Martha's clothes, all of it dropped to the floor before Mags said, "Lie down."

Martha did, lying back on the bed and watching as Mags took off her own bra and panties, leaving just the black garter belt biting into the flesh of her hips, and the stockings. They slid against Martha's legs as Mags climbed on top of her. Mags moaned into her mouth and rolled them both so they were on their sides, their bodies pressed together, kissing furiously now, Martha meeting Mags with her lips and hands, legs intertwined, and Mags pressing her thigh again and again between Martha's legs.

Mags seemed to know when Martha needed more. She slid her hand down between them and dipped her fingers gingerly alongside Martha's clit, stroking over and over before pushing a finger inside her.

Mags gasped and broke off their kiss. Her eyes were open, merry with surprise. "My God!" she whispered. "Marty, you're soaking wet. You should feel yourself."

Martha giggled. "Don't be silly." She kissed Mags' lips, which were beautifully swollen and red.

Mags grinned devilishly. "What if I want you to? What if I won't do anything else until you do?"

If anyone had asked her before she'd decided to get completely naked with her best friend, Martha would have denied that it was possible to embarrass her. She'd seen a lot in her day, and done a great deal too, but no one had ever told her to touch herself. Her cheeks grew red. She squirmed.

"All right," she said. She was never one to turn down a dare.

"Go on then."

As soon as she touched herself, Mags covered Martha's hand with her own, guiding her fingers inside. Mags' grin had faded, and now she watched with a look that was equal parts reverence and mischief, as Martha sighed at her own touch, pressing hungrily against her own fingers and Mags' hand, seeking more pressure.

"I can't remember the last time--" Martha didn't finish the thought. She wasn't sure she'd ever been this wet, this close to orgasm this fast. All words were lost as pleasure gathered between her legs and her whole body began to hum.

Mags slid her fingers up to circle Martha's clit, pausing against the side of it with just enough pressure to make Martha tilt her hips greedily. Mags leaned into her, her leg over Martha's, her warm breath ghosting over Martha's throat as she pushed Martha onto her back.

"You," Martha gasped. "What about you?"

"Worry about me later. Just feel this," Mags murmured, establishing a delicious rhythm with her fingers.

Martha had no idea of wanting to draw it out. Mags attuned the slide of her fingers harder, faster, as Martha's breathing quickened, and pleasure gathered into a tight, demanding ball of need between Martha's legs: wanting more, a little more, a little more, to push her over the edge.

Mags was right there at each moment to push her along, never slacking, never teasing. She knew what she was about. With her last ounce of rational thought, Martha made a silent vow that she would be just as good to Mags, however she wanted, as many times as she wanted.

Martha exploded more than fell apart, shouting as her orgasm rolled over her in wave after wave. She was sopping wet, her fingers slick as she pressed them into her, Mags' lips tracing the line of sweat that burst out across her temple.

Mags held Martha as her shudders turned into deep belly laughter, and the details of the room came back in around her: the light filtering in through the window, falling across her antique dresser, the faded colours of the floral duvet that they hadn't managed to climb under, and Mags' bright hair, spilling across Martha's chest, where Mags rested her head. Martha put her hand there, and stroked Mags' hair.

Mags smiled coyly. "That seemed to go well."

Martha's heart was ready to burst with all the things she felt for this woman, the uncomplicated affection they'd always shared. Like sisters, so many people had said, and Martha had agreed, but no, it wasn't that. It was never that. Like they were meant for each other, more like.

"I would say so, dear." Martha fought back tears. Having Mags back again was better than anything.

Mags was still taut as a bowstring, her body tense under Martha's hands as she stroked the long planes of her back, and cupped her chin.

"Roll," Martha said.

Mags cocked an eyebrow. "Where?"

"I don't know. On your back, I suppose. Just budge over."

Mags slid onto her back and eased up onto the pillows at the head of the bed, which Martha had missed altogether. With her hair spread over the red paisley pillow covers and her face flushed with desire, she looked more than ever like a fire goddess.

"You're a treat for the eyes," Martha said. "You were always so lovely. You still are."

"I hope not just for the eyes," Mags said, the last word turning breathy as Martha ran a tentative hand over her belly.

"What would you like?" Martha said, running her palm over the soft flesh of Mags' breast. "Anything you want."

Martha was sure she could do something Mags would enjoy. She'd never been with a woman before, but she knew very well what she liked, and that was a good place to start. Besides, she'd always been adventurous.

Mags smiled down at her as Martha slid lower, running her hands over the silk of the black garter belt. "Anything you want to do is good."

Martha slid a finger into the top of one stocking, pulling back the elastic lace then letting it snap. Mags' laughter popped out of her.

"I think I can come up with a thing or two."

Martha slid lower still, caressing the white tops of Mags' thighs where they showed above her stockings, positioning herself between Mags' legs, nudging them open.

"Pass me a pillow, sweetheart," she said.

Mags' lower back had bothered her, when they were younger. Too many days wearing heels, the obligatory office uniform. This would be more comfortable. Besides, Martha wanted her propped up for reasons of her own.

Mags tilted her hips up with a breathy sigh, and Martha placed the pillow under her. With her hips lifted, her legs canted open, everything framed by the black stockings and garter belt, Mags was a sight to behold.

"Ah," Mags moaned, as Martha pushed a finger experimentally into her lush red folds. "Marty."

Her nickname on Mags' lips was enough to strip away the last of Martha's hesitation. She nudged closer to Mags, spread her open with her fingertips, and ran the flat of her tongue alongside Mags' clit, slowly, taking all the time she needed to taste Mags' warmth. She was sweet,  her scent much more subtle than any of the men Martha had used her mouth on.

Mags gasped and moaned above her, beginning to writhe. _Right where I want you_ , Martha thought, as she slid one finger into Mags, then another. She pressed against the front wall of taut muscle, stroking as she pressed her tongue gently to Mags' clit and began to move it.

Mags was a rich cloud of sensations and tastes and scents around Martha as she teased and tongued and blended her saliva with Mags' wet heat. Mags' stocking clad legs pressed and slid against Martha's shoulders, her hands tangling in Martha's hair, then clutching the duvet. The perfume of her: the sandalwood scent she wore, the trace of lemon laundry soap rising from her stockings, and the taste that was just her, just woman. Her moans turned rhythmic and low as she moved toward her climax.

When she came, Mags keened sweetly, her heels digging into the bed, her hips rising to Martha's mouth and hand, rolling up to find the pressure she needed. Martha rode out Mags' climax just as Mags had done for her: staying right with her until she settled, until she was left debauched and slack on Martha's bed.

Martha shook, her arms wobbly after propping herself up, the back of her neck stiff from the unaccustomed position. She pulled the extra blanket out from under Mags' feet and spread it over her, then climbed in under it.

Her chin was wet. She wiped it with the back of her hand. Mags, flushed and smiling, put her arm around Martha and pulled her close.

"So good of you to come," Mags said, her voice husky and lush. "To the funeral, I mean."

Martha shifted to press herself closer to Mags, skin meeting skin, warmth meeting warmth. "I wouldn't have missed it."

Mags giggled.

The house was quiet around them. Martha sighed. Her hip throbbed. She would pay for all of it tomorrow, but there were always more herbal soothers and epsom salts. She would treasure each ache.

The two of them breathed together, still and satiated. It was just like it had always been, between them, the give and take of their friendship, the generosity they'd always shared. It could be like that again. It could be better. Martha wanted it. She hoped Mags did too.

"You'll stay to supper," Martha said.

"Mmmm." Mags was already falling asleep.

Martha supposed that was fine. She was drifting too. They would nap, and when they woke up, they would still be here, still together, and that would be wonderful.

From upstairs, came the faint strains of a waltz played on violin.


End file.
